Unending
by PallaPlease
Summary: [Post-LotR.]  Legolas mourns the passing of one closest to him.  Vignette.


Unending  
  
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The winds that came through the trees were of no comfort, and in silent thought Legolas rested within the dappled shadows. A blossom in his hands - a white fan of petals and distant fragrance - was one discarded by the eternal blooming in the trees, drifting idyllically from the limbs both strong and immortal; and he turned it about in his long fingers, knowing without seeing, feeling but not consciously aware of its soft texture, as he watched the sky and the sea. Pale and deep blue they were, endless and calm in the faint breezes tousling elven hair and whisper-laden branches, but their beauty was a bittersweet sight. Over, again, he passed the small curling blossom from one palm to its mirroring opposite, closing his eyes to the wind and the sea and the sky.  
  
"You are in sorrow today, Legolas," he heard but was not surprised. The deep, gentle tones of Galadriel's voice were as music and yet of nature, as cool as the breezes and endless as the sea he no longer chose to watch. He did not question her coming; she, in turn, did not offer the knowledge. "What darkness has sought you, even in the summer of the havens?" she continued evenly, asking as might a mother of a quietened child. He was still young in the span of Elves, and found it soothing, recalling the soft words of his mother and waiting, quick and passive as the blossom continued moving in his hands.  
  
And carefully, as statement rather than query, she spoke with a lilt, "You mourn one who is lost to you." A heart beat of silence but for the absent murmurs of sea froth and ruffling leaves, and again she spoke, holding together her hands as she looked gravely upon him. "Why, then, do you mourn yet? These are lands of calm and peace, wherein tranquility persists with no threat of shadow or war to plague us. Here in a way more profound than that of any land are we unending." She was still, listening, and after a brief span no more than the thrum of a bee's wings did he open his eyes to see again the wild, tender sea.  
  
"Sorrow is near to me," said Legolas plainly. His raiment shifted with the breeze, the pale greens he wore by nature and a dark tone of earthen color, concession to that whom he wept for. The movements of his hands slowed, as if caught in thought or pain. "Ten-and-five years it has been, but still does the grief cleave to me. I fear at times such as this, when the memories are strong, I shall not find the strength to lay aside the remembrance and join in merriment." His hands grew quiet and though trembled once were without motion, the pale blossom forgotten in the cupped palms, and again was there silence; but now carefully and calmly, in the fashion of laying flat a simple knowledge, he spoke, "Though the havens are fair with summer, lady, it is as winter now and then, when my thoughts turn to friendships hallow and gone."  
  
She stepped forward, a tall and graceful queen with eyes deep in empathy and fellow shade. "Nay," intoned Galadriel, gravely, "not gone, for such things are not lightly laid to rest and continue ever on. But all mortals hold vows with the earth, returning as the moments of life are spent; and we both have lost those we wish would not pass on. I cannot change the wanderings trails, tormenting as it is, plaguing and cruel to stay and watch in silent grieving. Yet that which I have no sway over I keep myself at peace with." She paused delicately, for she knew pity for the quiet prince watching the sea, then advised gently, "Leave Gimli Elvellon to his peace; neither Galadriel nor Legolas can stire life anew in him; or Frodo; or Samwise; or eldest Bilbo. I have come to ask of you to set aside your sorrow and return from the seat and the earth to your kin who wait."  
  
Thus did Galadriel depart, leaving as softly as she had come, and still did Legolas watch the sea, mindful of the thin petals in his palm and dropping the other to the earth. His fingers pressed into the loam and the moss, perhaps a striving to anchor himself; he had known as always he had that Gimli son of Glóin would, as did all those of blood not Elven or Istari, pass into silence, and rare were the occasions when his grief overtook his sense, rationale taking leave to sudden sorrow. Grey streaks had long been in the beard of the Dwarf, and surlier signs of enroaching age: a slow descent in strength and energy, deepening of lines and hollows, and a thousand other things to be expected and unsurprised by. Yet death, no matter if it were prepared for or known to be coming, was still resolute and unforgiving.  
  
Allowing the blossom to drift on a breeze from his fingers, Legolas stood and swept the remnant traces of earth and leaf from breeks and hands, hesitating once to watch the sea before he traipsed silently from his forlorn sanctuary.  
  
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Notes: Dubiously somber, isn't it - iffy.  
  
Disclaimer: I own naught; all is the property of the late, the great, the one J.R.R. Tolkien (and thereby Tolkien estates).  
  
Set: After Legolas and Gimli depart for the Grey Havens; my more educated friends (all two of 'em) have informed me that completely against my silly happy endings for all and forever after belief, that odds are mortals will still die in the havens. And so on.  
  
Feedback: Reviews of any sort are certainly welcome. 


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